


003

by tepidspongebath



Series: Numbered Porn [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Multi, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:12:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is not surprised when comes home to find John Watson in a very compromising position with a girl. He <i>is</i> surprised when he is invited to join them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> De-anoning from the kink meme. This is a fill for a prompt asking for [Virgin!Sherlock/John/woman](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=77727621#t77727621). Um. I'd be sorry, but I suspect it's a little late for that.  
>  **Disclaimer** : The characters of the BBC's Sherlock are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this.

The girl was...incidental, at best. John had chatted her up at a bar he didn't usually frequent, and he had brought her home to Baker Street, and Sherlock had come home to find them both part naked in the sitting room.

"Finally," said John, pulling his mouth away from the girl's breasts _(34, usually wears Marks and Spencer, nicer underwear tonight, clearly wanted to get laid, likes what John's been doing)_. "I thought you'd never get here."

"I can leave again if you like." Sherlock looked at the two of them, levelly. Naked bodies didn't faze him, not after all he'd seen on a slab, and John walked around in just a towel after a shower sometimes. John was also more than a little sensitive about his flatmate being around when he brought his dates home - he usually shagged them elsewhere, or waited for Sherlock to be out of town.

At least naked bodies weren't supposed to faze him.

"Don't." John let go of the girl ( _vaguely remembers her name, won't mention it just in case he gets it wrong_ ) and approached Sherlock, not bothering to do anything about his state of dishabille. He licked his lips, and reached out to touch the detective's face, his fingers tracing the detective's jawline.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, to protest ( _girl watching, expecting something, covering herself, though out of a cultural habit more than modesty_ ), and John moved his hand so that he could run his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip, the tip of his finger just inside the moistness of his flatmate's mouth.

"Fucking sexy mouth you've got," said John, repeating the motion. "I don't think I ever told you. I don't know if anyone has."

Involuntarily -- at least he was sure that it was involuntary, what else could it be? -- Sherlock partially closed his mouth on John's finger, felt his tongue meet the pad of the doctor's thumb.

Then, quite abruptly, John pulled his hand away, and leaned in to give Sherlock a quick, messy kiss on the mouth. The detective pulled away a fraction of a second too late.

John laughed, low and dirty. "You've never even been kissed, have you? Not properly at any rate."

"That's none of your business!" Too brittle, too fast. Sherlock knew it the moment the words left his lips. He took a breath to steady himself. "Not in a while, at any rate."

"Let's take care of that then."

The doctor pulled Sherlock down by his coat lapels, and put his lips on his, pushing his tongue deep into his flatmate's mouth, coaxing him to participate.

_Hormones_ , thought Sherlock desperately, as, God (who may or may not exist but it was useful to have something to blame) help him, he responded, moving his mouth to meet John's, flicking his own tongue against the one shoving roughly into his oral cavity. _Just fucking hormones._

"God, Sherlock, you have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that," said John when he finally pulled out of the kiss. "And she almost took that from me, that Irene Adler." His hands went under Sherlock's coat and jacket, feeling the detective through his shirt. "You're _mine_ ," he whispered into Sherlock's ear, and his voice started a vicious white heat coiling at the bottom of the detective's stomach.

There were a number of things that Sherlock was prepared to admit at this point. For one thing, he had been entertaining similar thoughts about John, had, in fact, been waking up in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat from decidedly less than chaste dreams of his blogger ( _his_ ), had been wondering what it would be like...

For another, and only because he didn't think he could hide it for much longer, especially at this proximity, he very badly wanted to find out what it would be like _right now_. ( _Chemicals_ , he reminded himself. _Too late_ , said his hormone-ridden brain.)

"Virgin, is that what Moriarty calls you?" John ran his hands up Sherlock's ribs, pinched his nipple through the silk of his shirt, making the detective gasp. "Let me take care of that. That is," he said, abruptly pulling away, and, just for a moment, sounding like the ordinary, everyday John Watson, "if you'll let me."

"Yes." It came out as a sigh, needy and pleading and expectant all at once. Some part of Sherlock, some remaining, fenced-off, rational portion of his besotted mind, was shocked that he had it in him to make that kind of noise.

John's lips curved into a slow smile, and he kissed Sherlock again, on the corner of his mouth. "Bedroom," he said, taking Sherlock by the wrist, and beckoning to the girl.


	2. 003.2

He'd meant Sherlock's bedroom ( _closer, and with the bigger bed_ ), and he kissed Sherlock again when they got there, messily, on account of his shoving off the detective's jacket, and partially, his shirt at the same time.

"Get yourself naked," said John, when he finally pulled away. He turned to the girl. "Sorry, sweetheart, have I been neglecting you?"

"Make it up to me." She was sitting on the edge of the bed, and she spread her legs for him, knickers dangling off one ankle, clearly an invitation. "You never said he was that bloody gorgeous, your flatmate."

"Yes, well." 

Sherlock watched, shrugging off his shirt completely, as John went on his knees in front of her, pushed her legs further apart, and began to lick at her clit. She put a hand on his head, pulling him closer, and she made a deep, satisfied sound in the back of her throat at whatever it was John was doing ( _sucking at her clit or pushing his tongue up between her labia and against her entrance, he knew the theory_ ). 

"Come on, you," she said to Sherlock, and her skin was flushed and her breath was already coming in gasps. "He said to get naked."

 _Office worker_ , thought Sherlock as he unfastened his belt. _Maybe something in publication, more likely something to do with advertising_. He - _him!_ \- fumbled - _fumbled!_ \- with the zipper of his trousers, and they slid down his legs, leaving him standing in his pants. It shouldn't have mattered, not at this point, that he couldn't hide his erection anymore, but he hesitated anyway.

"Good enough," said the girl, or nearly said, because the last word ended in a groan as John pushed a finger inside her. 

Sherlock walked to the bed, and hovered - it was hard to think of a better word - near the two of them. He hesitated, only briefly, but John took his face out of the girl's crotch, mouth messy with her juices, and used the hand that didn't have two fingers up her vagina to touch Sherlock through his boxers. Sherlock felt his breath stutter at the contact.

" _God_ ," said John, pulling his fingers out of the girl and using both hands to take Sherlock by the hips. "Fuck me, you're beautiful."

"I thought that was the idea," said Sherlock, and it was an effort to keep his voice even as John moved him a little downwards to give his cock a soft kiss through the cotton underpants before pulling them all the way down. 

"Right you are," said John. He got to his feet, spread a hand on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock shuddered at the contact, flesh-on-flesh, familiar, surprisingly _intimate_ , and he placed a tentative hand over his flatmate's as John gently pushed him down on to the bed. "Take care of him for a bit, would you?"

The girl made a compliant noise, and she sidled up to Sherlock as he watched John take off the rest of his clothes ( _two-day trousers, and - oh God - briefs_ ). She threw a leg over his lap, and, putting her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, settled on his knees.

"Nervous?" she asked, looping her arms around his neck.

"Why would I be?" Over her shoulder, he could see John picking through the things on his dresser.

"He said you were a virgin." 

"Yes." She moved her hips, rubbing herself against his legs. Sherlock felt the heat coil and tense at the pit of his stomach, felt himself exhale, hard. John had, at this point, taken something from the dresser ( _he had seen it, how come he had missed what it was?_ ), and was fishing for something in the pocket of his jeans.

"It's okay to touch," said the girl. And she took Sherlock by the wrist - he had been leaning backward a little, supporting himself with hands placed a little ways behind him on the bed - and brought his hand to one of her breasts. "Go on."

He cupped it, squeezed a little ( _the look on her face - parted lips, closed eyes - and the sigh exaggerated to encourage him but not by too much_ ), rubbed his thumb over the nipple, and she leaned in to kiss him. Her mouth different from John's, softer, less insistent, and her lips were fuller, and she writhed on his lap, her grip on his wrist tightening as he put his other hand on the back of her head, curling his fingers in her dark hair ( _two years since the last drastic hair cut, dyed before that, auburn going by the color still left at the tips_ ). 

"Not bad," she said, when they pulled apart, quirking a small smile at him.

"No, not bad at all," said John, who was standing quite near. It should have bothered Sherlock, really, that he hadn't noticed when that had happened - he supposed that it _did_ bother him on some level - but it was unimportant now. He reached out, brushed his fingers against John's thigh, an invitation, maybe a question. John licked his lips, put a hand on Sherlock's knee. "On the bed properly, you two. Sherlock, put this on."


	3. 003.3

'This' was a condom, and the girl slid back and off Sherlock's lap to give him space, and his fingers shook a little as he pulled the latex over his cock. He could hear John taking deeper breaths, measured, as though the army doctor was counting them out in his head, trying to stay in control. He looked up at his flatmate, and John indicated where he wanted him to go with a curt nod of the head. 

Sherlock - he should have been alarmed at how he was going along with this, but, _christandallthesaints_ , he couldn't deny that he wanted it - pulled his legs up, scooted and stretched until he was lying full length on the bed, arms crossed above his head, fully exposed to God and the world, but mostly to John Watson.

And the girl, he thought belatedly, as she straddled him, resting on his stomach. Her too.

"Ready?" she asked, rocking against him, running a hand down his chest, and further down, to just where her legs were spread on his abdomen. He brought down one of his own hands, spread it over hers, the fingertips of his last two digits just brushing the thatch of her pubic hair. He could see John behind her, watching them, watching _him_ , in all probability touching himself though he couldn't be sure from the angle.

"Yes," breathed Sherlock, for the second time that night, and he saw John inhale sharply, pupils clearly dilated, even at this distance. " _Yes_ ," he said again, firmly, keeping his eyes fixed on his flatmate.

The girl nodded - she had to be aware of what he was looking at, but he didn't care, and she didn't seem to mind, though he would have thought she would, given that she was about to take his, Jesus, his virginity and he was paying her all the attention of a convenient place-holder - and lifted herself to her knees, edging downwards, until she was even with his cock. She reached down, took him in hand, guided him to her entrance, still slick and wet from what John had been doing. 

The thought of his cock being where John's mouth had been made his hips buck upwards, pushing the head of it that much further into the girl. He gasped, loudly, surprised at the warm, wet tightness of it, or rather surprised at how it felt, he'd known the theory, but, despite several good hard wanks in the past, he hadn't expected...anything, really, it wasn't something he'd really thought about.

Sherlock actually groaned as she lowered herself further onto him, taking more of him inside, and his hips canted upwards, his back arched in a tight curve, his head went further back into the pillows, his entire body - _transport!_ said a very small voice, very, very deep inside his brain - just wanting _more_.

He was, he told himself, still able to take stock of the situation beyond the fact that he had his, yes, let him be technical, blood-engorged penis up a woman's vagina - he wasn't a virgin anymore, was he, or at least he was so close to not being one as made no difference - and he thought he was in control, but that was when she started to move. It was a back-up-forward-down motion of the hips, made mostly by effort of her abdominal muscles, and he gave a bitten-off shout as the whole world as he knew it whited out and suddenly shrunk to the nerve endings firing off in his groin.

"Easy, Sherlock," said John, patting his thigh like he was calming a horse. Sherlock opened his eyes ( _he wasn't aware that he had closed them_ ), saw John on his knees behind the girl, saw him swallow as he met his flatmate's eyes. "Easy. I could watch you like that all day, you gorgeous thing, but hold it for a bit. Not yet." 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, to protest, to _beg_ , but John had asked the girl to bend over, and she had, and whatever he had meant to say was lost in a moan that started deep in his chest as his flatmate touched, put a warm finger against where he and the girl were connected.

"Fucking beautiful," rumbled John, tracing where Sherlock's cock disappeared between the girl's labia. Sherlock came back to himself enough to notice exactly how the girl was propped over him, face buried against his neck, on her bent elbows for support, leaning heavily against his chest ( _her nipples were hard, her heart beating out a fast, heavy rhythm against his skin_ ), arse as far up as she could make it go without sliding off of his cock. It couldn't have been very comfortable. John put a hand on her thigh, gave her a little squeeze. "You sure this is all right with you?" 

" _Yes_ ," she hissed, and Sherlock bucked underneath her at the warm breath rushing against his sensitive skin. "Get the fuck on with it, _please_."

"All right. Sure." John drew a breath. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm going to use your Vaseline, I'll buy you more when I do the shopping."

And there was the sound of John fumbling with something, a soft squelch, and then John dropping something onto the floor, and then there was the incoherent string of loud sounds the girl was making into Sherlock's neck as John pushed a slicked finger into her ass. He made his own unintelligible noises as he felt the slight increase in pressure on his cock when John moved the finger, stretching her open a little bit more, and John was swearing in broken disjointed syllables himself. The girl bit down on Sherlock's neck, hard, as John pushed a second finger in, and Sherlock bit down on his own lip, fisted a hand in her hair, when John introduced the third.

He gasped John's name like a prayer, like a lifeline, while his hands - clumsily, he knew, and, desperate - clutched at the bedsheets, at the girl, and flexed and fluttered with need and he said John's name again, a plea for help, because everything was just only managing to stay on the right side of _too much_.

And it was too much when John started to push his cock into the girl and Sherlock could feel him, feel John through several layers of another person's anatomy, and the added pressure and friction, and the girl clenching on his own cock as his flatmate filled her up even more, and _oh yes, God, too much, too much, help, John...!_ were his last thoughts before he crashed, crested, shouted into orgasm.


	4. 003.4

It was not something he relished, to be honest: oh, it was good, it _felt_ very _good_ , but on some level the loss of control, the giving over to his body disturbed Sherlock, as did the momentary blackout of everything beyond the searing heat pounding through him. And he knew, when he was ( _finally_ , it felt) done, when everything snapped back into focus like suddenly finding the right field with the fine adjustment on a microscope, that he had come too soon.

Also snapping back into focus was the fact that John was nowhere near done fucking the girl from behind yet; that he had her pulled up against him; that they were both still straddling Sherlock, John in a sort of awkward squat on his legs; and that his softening cock was still inside the girl while John continued to bugger her ass. It was the last fact that made him keenly aware of when she came, lips parting in a staccato cry, nails digging into the forearm John had tight around her breasts. 

She leaned limply into John when she was done, eyes bright, hair damp with sweat, and chest heaving with her deep breaths, and Sherlock wondered if he looked the same, or similar anyway. He reached over to touch her, his fingers brushing against the scar on her stomach ( _appendectomy, four or five years ago_ ), and she, still in a lazy post-orgasmic haze, gave a little sigh, caught Sherlock's hand and held it there.

"You were lovely," murmured John, kissing her on the temple. "You both were," he added, leaning over and around her to stroke a knuckle down Sherlock's cheek to his lips. "God, the look on your face." 

John pulled out of the girl with a not-quite grunt - he hadn't come yet, was still hard - and clambered off Sherlock's legs, a little stiffly perhaps, and she slid off Sherlock's spent cock, rolled off of him to stretch and settle beside him on the bed. She licked at his earlobe as he flexed his legs, bending the joints, getting the circulation back into them, and she would have whispered a question, whether he'd enjoyed himself or about her being his first ( _wrong, somehow she didn't count, John did...wait, thoughts fuzzy, stupid, wait_ ) or something similarly inane, so he turned his head to tell her to leave off speaking, but she took that for an invitation to a kiss, which was, he supposed, all right. He preferred John's mouth.

And John's mouth was elsewhere, planting kisses on the inside of Sherlock's thigh, on the joint between hip and pelvis, and Sherlock, surprised at the sensitivity more than anything else, jerked away, or tried to - John was holding him down by the hips.

"We're not done yet." And that was addressed to and intended for Sherlock alone, delivered by a column of air from the lungs, shaped by the lips and tongue and teeth of one Doctor John H. Watson, and Sherlock felt the protest ( _too soon, too much, you can't mean that, wait_ ) die on his lips. 

"Get up," said John around a mouthful of his flatmate's skin.

"Can't," Sherlock snarled through gritted teeth, because he knew he couldn't _possibly_ , because wasn't once enough for now, because he was still processing, measuring, _thinking_ as well as he could with imperfect data, and he tried to knee John off of him ( _gently, because never mind his cock, his entire body felt like a limp asparagus_ ), but the movement turned into something else, a tensing of legs and a curling of toes, as John brought his teeth together and sucked, leaving a love mark high on Sherlock's leg.

"I intend to _make_ you." There was a heartbeat where the doctor looked panicked at maybe having said the wrong thing, having been too rough - like he was about to apologize for it, actually, and that was just John Watson all over, and that was enough to start a tight knot of heat in Sherlock's groin ( _against all common sense, but to Hell with that and the horse it came in on_ ). 

He sat up, propping himself up with one arm, as John shuffled to his knees between his legs, laid a hand against the side of his face, and - tentatively, since he knew he wasn't good at it - pressed his lips against his ( _his_ ) blogger's. He must have gotten it right, because John parted his lips, flicked his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, and that was enough for him to pull away breathless.

"Show me," he said.


	5. 003.5

John slid off the bed, guiding Sherlock's thighs, knees, shins so that the detective was sitting on the edge of the bed with the doctor kneeling between his legs ( _less strain on his shoulder that way - he wasn't completely ignorant, he had a pretty shrewd idea as to where this was going_ ). He peeled the condom off Sherlock's penis, and, keeping his eyes on his flatmate's, took the head of it in his mouth.

It was the fact of the matter, that _John's mouth_ was actually _on his cock_ and seeing and feeling and knowing that it was real, that did it for Sherlock more than anything else. And the wet heat and the deft tongue moving around his cock, teasing at the slit, well, those were just so many good things extra that had his eyes going wide, and his heart beating a ragged tattoo in his chest.

A pair of arms snaked around his waist - the girl, yes, she was there too, wasn't she - and hands were pressing against his chest, his belly, the part of his length that John hadn't taken into his mouth yet. Belatedly, he noted how she was positioned, behind him, with her legs spread against his, and he realized that he was noticing this now because John's hand was moving between them, up her thigh and against his, pushing them slightly apart to give himself room to push his fingers, unceremoniously and with some difficulty, up into the girl. She gasped, tightened her grip around Sherlock, pulling him against her so that he could feel John's hand moving against his arse as the doctor fingered _her_ while continuing to suck _him_ , to take more of him in than he had thought possible ( _that couldn't be comfortable - could it?_ ).

The facts of the matter. John's lips stretched around him, the head of his cock pushing against the back of John's throat as his hips thrust up and forwards. The girl behind him moving too, fucking herself on John's fingers, to put it crudely, making small noises in her throat and her nails digging crescent moon marks into his sides. He was erect again, far sooner than he'd thought possible, a savage heat pulsing beneath his skin, curling and concentrating in his groin, and everything burst into white heat when John sucked particularly hard, cupped his balls and squeezed. He was so close. So close that his misgivings about losing control to so many ordinary chemicals were distant murmuring far away in his head, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut and think about dismembered thumbs and maggoty roadkill and _Anderson_ , and not about what John would do if he ejaculated in his mouth, on his face, what doing that would be _like_.

He whimpered, actually whimpered, when John pulled away, precome trailing from Sherlock's cock to his swollen lips. His flatmate also drew his hand from the girl, eliciting a shiver and a sigh from her.

He stood, levering himself up with a hand on Sherlock's thigh. "Not yet. Sorry. Switch, Sherlock." John leaned over, fisting a hand in his flatmate's hair to whisper dirtily in his ear. "Fuck her ass. I want to see you do that." And he kissed Sherlock again, sucking at his lower lip - Sherlock could taste himself in that kiss, and it made the blood rush in his ears, made his already achingly _hard_ cock twitch against his stomach - before tumbling back onto the bed.

"Would you do that for me?" asked John, putting his arm around Sherlock's waist, and there was that almost apologetic note in his voice again, and it made the consulting detective exhale, counting to ten as he did, with long, controlled beats between the numbers. He tilted his head forward in the barest gesture of assent, and John kissed his shoulder ( _thank you_ ). "Condom," he said, nodding at his discarded jeans. "And you'll need lubricant."

As Sherlock stood gingerly, he could hear John asking the girl if it would be okay, if she was up for it, and the answer to that - he had his back to them as he put the condom on, and, all the gods and saints of _everything_ , it was _difficult_ to concentrate - was the sound of flesh on flesh and the heavy creak of two bodies becoming suddenly horizontal on the bed, which turned into more rhythmic creak-thumps as they began to move. He watched them as he slicked himself with the Vaseline, John on top of the girl and between her legs, the muscles beneath his skin tensing as he pushed his cock into her, and it took all of his self-control to not help himself right then with a good few tugs.

"You coming yet?" said John, impatiently, breathily, between thrusts, and his expressive mouth curved into a small smile as he realized the pun he'd made. He rolled over then, maneuvering so that the girl was on top of him, and he shot Sherlock a look, an invitation, a challenge, a _please-will-you_ that his flatmate acknowledged and accepted, clambering onto the bed, going on his knees behind the girl and over John's legs. She lifted her buttocks up slightly, shifting her weight to her torso pressed against his flatmate's chest, and Sherlock had a full view of her prepared arsehole and John's cock going up into her vagina.

He put his hands on her waist - she was making little noises at the back of her throat as John went on pushing himself deeper inside her - and paused. It was straightforward enough, it should have been, he'd just seen it done, hadn't he, and, heaven help him, he wanted it, or at least thought he wanted it, the chemicals that were playing merry hell with his nerves wanted it, and it was a simple, simple thing, people with less than half a working brain cell managed sex all the time, but nevertheless there was a cold, unfamiliar ball of doubt suddenly sitting in the pit of his stomach right in the midst of all the mindless heat.

"John," he said, and he swallowed. "I don't - I'm not--"

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" shouted John, and it was the first sign of true impatience he'd shown throughout the proceedings ( _close to orgasm and trying to delay it, that's - possibly - why_ ). "All you have to do is push the head of your dick past her anal sphincter and up her rectum and let it take over from there. That's not so fucking hard, is it?"


	6. 003.6

It wasn't hard at all. In fact, it was deliriously easy.

Sherlock slid into the girl, pushing perhaps too fast and too hard - she whimpered loudly, burying her face against his flatmate's neck, and John made shushing noises, his hands rubbing soothing circles on her back - and that was easy, but he had to stop, _had to_ , before he was all the way in because, for the second time that night, things were dangerously bordering on _too much_.

It was tight, tighter than her cunt ( _vagina_ ) had been, and, yes, there was the heat, and John - he had been keeping still, mostly, Sherlock suspected, for his benefit - bucked upward ( _he didn't mean to, involuntary, couldn't help it, lost control_ ) and he could feel John moving inside her, several layers of skin and muscle and various other internal tissues away from his own hard cock. He might have groaned, might have tilted his head back while John's name tumbled from his lips. He might have. But what he actually did, what he was sure of, was that he drove the rest of his length into the girl, and that he began, in earnest, to fuck her. 

He had no real measure of how long he did it, thrusting in and out of her urgently, mindlessly ( _yes,_ mindlessly, _that was saying something, wasn't it?_ ), simply riding the sensation. All he knew, while it was happening, was that he needed it, needed more, needed for that hot, wonderful _tightness_ to take him in, all of him, and how John had to keep moving too, beneath him, grinding deep inside her, and how she moved her hips, sliding further onto one cock and then the other with every cant and twist.

Part of him - the part that was still Sherlock Holmes and not a sex-crazed animal with his dick up a woman's arse - wondered, distantly, what it would look like to an outside observer, the three of them, like this.

He must have had a hand on the girl's hip, because John was touching him there, fingers trembling so hard that he needed several tries before he took Sherlock's hand in his, squeezed it so tightly that it hurt, the small bones grinding together in his grip ( _like their two erections grinding together inside a woman, stop, stop, stop_.)

"Sweet Jesus," said John, and his head went back as he made a sound that shot straight to Sherlock's core. "Holy _fuck_. Christ. _Sherlock_."

And there, in a stark moment of clarity, Sherlock realized that he would very much like to make John say his name like that again. And that he wanted _very much_ to find out if doing this to John, breaching him, filling him up and pounding into him, would do that. And if, in fact, it would feel anything like this.

It was the thought that sent him over the edge, just as John said his name again, shouted it as he came. Sherlock's second orgasm crashed through him with a roar in his eyes and white light in his ears, and a brilliant intensity that almost _hurt_.

***

The girl left early in the morning, citing work as an excuse ( _probably true, or she might just have been uncomfortable sharing the bed_ ). John saw her out of the flat, offering coffee (or tea if she preferred, or even milk since it was one of the days when they actually had some in the fridge), murmuring thanks, but not, Sherlock noticed, asking for her number or suggesting that she call. It was possible, of course, that he'd missed it, seeing as he hadn't bothered to get up himself, but somehow he didn't think that was the case. 

He stayed where he was, on his stomach, on his bed, lazily cataloging what had happened now that he could, now that his head was clear and the hormones ( _stupid, glorious, idiotic chemicals_ ) had, in all probability and in defiance of physiology, been quite literally burned away. If his pulse quickened, and if he sighed heavily once or twice, it was before John came back - he'd made himself somewhat decent, pulled on a shirt and his briefs - and stood in the doorway. It was a curious thing, really, how you could feel someone looking at you, and Sherlock could feel exactly how his flatmate was staring in the back of his neck and in the prickle of the bare skin of his back.

John went over to the bed, and sat, tentatively on the edge of it. Sherlock expected him to reach over, to touch, or even to lie down again and slide an arm around his waist or shoulders. Instead, he stayed where he was for rather longer than was comfortable, and Sherlock could quite clearly imagine the military posture, and the hands folded uneasily in his lap. Eventually he stirred, turning towards Sherlock and clearing his throat.

"I, um, had a few last night," said John.

"I could tell."

"'Course you could." There was a smile there, though it was quickly schooled back into sternness. "Are you okay, though?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I hope - I hope I didn't force you into anything you didn't want."

Sherlock rolled over onto his side to face John, one leg crooked for balance, and maybe for modesty ( _such as was left of it anyway_ ). "What makes you think you could force me to do anything?"

"Well." It was all in the jut of John's chin, and the set of his mouth, and Sherlock found himself drawing a sharp breath. "I reckon we could find out."


End file.
